


Whump Drabble Challenge

by awesomesockes, Sally0, whumphoarder, xxx_cat_xxx



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Broken Bones, Challenge Response, Choking, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drunkenness, Fever, Food Poisoning, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Influenza, Injury, Motion Sickness, Nosebleed, Skateboarding, Vomiting, Whump, animal bite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-09-23 03:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20333641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomesockes/pseuds/awesomesockes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sally0/pseuds/Sally0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: A collection of MCU drabbles, each written to fulfill a randomly generated injury/illness prompt that we literally drew from a hat. Lots of unusual character interactions and whump-filled scenarios.Current Drabbles:1. Loki & Pepper + Infection2. Tony & Peter + Vomiting3. Morgan & Natasha + Food Poisoning4. Happy & Bucky + Migraine5. Rhodey & Thor + Drunk6. Pepper & Nat + Dislocated Shoulder7. Bruce & Steve + Broken Leg8. Morgan & Peter + Broken Arm9. Hulk & Rhodey + Fever10. Natasha & Natasha + Flu11. Bruce & Clint + Animal Bite12. Peter, Bruce & Tony + Motion Sickness13. Steve, Peter & Tony + Nosebleed14. Tony & Peter + Cracked Ribs15. Steve & Bucky + Fever16. Nat & Tony + Migraine17. Bucky & Steve + Infection18. Peter & Happy + Choking19. Bruce & Hulk + Paper Cut





	1. Loki & Pepper + Infection

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, Cecily and I were hardcore procrastinating writing our 7 current collab projects, so naturally, we started messing around and behold, this game was born! Then Cat and Sally are super rad, so they hopped on our train wreck too :D
> 
> Each chapter consists of one drabble created by drawing one slip of paper from each category (location, character, injury/illness, caretaker, and a "bonus" item or phrase) to create a randomly generated fic prompt. Some are cuter, some are whumpier, and some are just straight-up ridiculous. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Prison  
Character: Loki  
Injury/Illness: Infection  
Caretaker: Pepper  
Bonus: “Riding the struggle bus”

“He won’t let me in,” the guard complains as they stand outside the cell at the SHIELD holding facility. “He keeps threatening me.”

It’s only her decades of practice in interacting with incompetent company leaders in the corporate world that keeps Pepper from rolling her eyes at this guy. “This is a high tech security prison. Mr. Laufeyson’s powers are rendered inert by the gamma frequencies in this facility, _ and _ he’s currently injured, all of which Tony explained to you yesterday before the team left on their mission. What exactly is the threat?”

The guard’s face flushes. “He keeps saying if I come anywhere near him with the medication he’s going to gouge out my eyes and eat them off skewers and remove my ribs one by one to fashion into a xylophone and…” He glances down at his feet and adds the last bit in an indiscernible mumble, “tiemydickintoabow.”

Pepper blinks at him. “He’ll do what now?”

“He’ll um, he’ll take my…” The guard trails off. “My, you know, my penis, and…” He mimics tying a knot near his belt buckle.

Pepper lets out an exasperated sigh. “Just give me the cream.”

The guard's eyes widen. “Um, I wouldn’t do that, ma’am, he’s quite hostile, uh…”

She holds out a hand expectantly. “Cream. Now.”

Warily, the guard fishes the extra-strength antibiotic ointment from his pocket and places it onto Pepper’s open palm. She snags the small medical kit from the man’s desk as she moves determinedly towards the cell door.

The guard calls over, his voice timid, “Uh, did you want some backup, or…?”

She ignores him, punching the access code into the keypad before marching straight in.

Loki is stretched out on the room’s twin-size cot, lying on his stomach, one arm hanging over the edge of the mattress. He’s shirtless and his right shoulder blade is thoroughly bandaged, though the gauze seems to be yellowing around the wound. He looks about as pathetic as Pepper’s ever seen him.

Without bothering to look up, he groans, “Did I not paint a graphic enough picture of what would occur to your genitalia the next time you entered this cell?”

“Honestly, I’d like to see you try,” Pepper retorts as she crosses the room.

Loki raises his head slightly, brow furrowed. “You’re not Dale…”

“Dale says you’re riding the struggle bus today,” Pepper answers shortly. “Sit up.”

Loki scoffs and turns his head back away. “No thank you. You may go.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow at him and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not letting SHIELD’s prisoner turn septic on my watch. Now, sit up. I’ve got places to be.”

Loki lifts his head again, this time looking almost amused. “As you wish, dear lady.”

It takes a moment, but slowly, the weakened god pushes himself up to a seated position on the bed. Pepper sets the medical kit down on the room’s small table and flips it open, locating a pair of latex gloves and pulling them on.

As Tony explained it the day before, Loki’s healing factor would normally have taken care of the injury in a matter of hours, but the magic-dampening field that currently prevents his powers from working also inhibits his healing. He’s just as human as anyone else at the moment.

Loki hisses a bit as she peels the old gauze away from the wound. Her nose wrinkles up at the yellow pus weeping from the edges of the gash. “This is infected,” she says simply. “You need to be nicer to Dale when he tries to help and it wouldn’t get like this.”

“He’s a moron,” Loki grumbles as Pepper opens the small bottle of peroxide from the kit and pours it over the wound. 

Pepper huffs, putting the bottle back down and picking up the ointment instead. “I never said he wasn’t. But sometimes we need morons to get things done.” She smears a thick layer of antibiotic cream over the cut. “So be nice.”

Loki keeps quiet as she dresses the wound, taping the fresh gauze in place. When she’s finished, she removes the gloves and cleans her hands with the pocket-sized hand sanitizer from her purse before retrieving the bottle of penicillin from the kit and shaking two out into his palm.

“Humans are so weak…” Loki mutters, throwing the pills back into his mouth. He swallows them down with a grimace.

Pepper hands him a water bottle from her bag. “The team won’t be home until Sunday and my schedule is packed, so you better not threaten Dale tomorrow.”

Loki smirks. “We’ll see about that.”


	2. Tony & Peter + Vomiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Steve’s apartment  
Character: Tony  
Injury/Illness: Vomiting  
Caretaker: Peter  
Bonus: Mjölnir

“Is Thor really gonna be on the mission with us?” Peter asks excitedly. 

“I dunno, kid,” Tony grunts. The two of them are seated on the couch in the living room of the Brooklyn apartment as Steve finishes getting suited up in his bedroom. “We’ll see when we get there.” 

“I really hope he’s there!” Peter gushes. “It would be so awesome to fight side by side with a literal _ god_. Did I tell you we study him in school?”

“Yeah, only like twelve times…” Tony mutters. He shifts position on the sofa, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees to see if that helps with the growing queasiness. He knew he should have waited until the weekend before switching to his new heart medication—the doctor warned him nausea might be a potential side effect.

“I’m gonna ask if I can try to lift the hammer, you know, after we defeat the aliens of course,” Peter continues to ramble. “Do you think I’d be worthy? Are you worthy, Mr. Stark? Have you ever lifted it? Wouldn’t it be funny to rule a _ whole world _ just because you lifted a hammer?”

Tony gives a non-committal grunt, not wanting to open his mouth any further than strictly necessary. What would really be awesome, he thinks, is if this kid could just shut up for five minutes.

But Tony’s never been particularly lucky.

“I wish I had a hammer,” Peter goes on. “You know, to go with my suit. I know it doesn’t really fit with the spider theme, but…” He trails off when he turns to look fully at Tony. “Um… are you okay?”

“‘M’fine…” Tony breathes out. His heart is beating faster now and he’s starting to feel lightheaded, which is causing the nausea to rapidly approach a tipping point. Realizing this is a losing battle, he pushes himself up from the sofa shakily. “Be right back… ” he mutters.

He makes it two steps toward the bathroom before a wave of dizziness crashes over him and he falls to his knees on the floor.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter’s beside him in an instant, looking frantic. “Oh my god, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Rather than answering, Tony leans forward and vomits all over Captain America’s carpet. 

“Oh shit!” Peter gasps, jumping back. Tony heaves again, this time mostly hitting himself.

“Tony?” Steve—fully dressed, except for the fact that he’s only wearing one boot—is standing on his other side now, a hand on his shoulder for support. “What’s going on?”

“S’fine… just some new meds,” Tony sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances guiltily at the carpet. “I’ll get that dry cleaned.”

Steve waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that." He hesitates a moment, looking uncertain. "Uh, I’ll just call Happy to come pick you up.”

For a second, Tony considers protesting—he’s definitely fought while feeling worse before. But then another sickly burp escapes and he finds himself nodding in agreement, pressing a fist to his lips to keep everything down. 

Looking awkward, Peter reaches out a hand to pat him on the back. “Um, if Thor’s there, I’ll tell him hi for you…”

Tony nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “You do that, kid.”


	3. Morgan & Natasha + Food Poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Air vents  
Character: Morgan  
Injury/illness: Food poisoning  
Caretaker: Nat  
Bonus: Hot dog

Ever since Morgan was a toddler, she’s had the tendency to hide whenever she’s upset or not feeling well. Nat’s pretty sure she got this from her dad, who once famously holed himself up in his workshop with double pneumonia for nearly a week while ignoring all his teammate’s attempts to contact him. For a few days, she honestly thought he was dead.

But anyway, this isn’t about Tony at the moment.

Morgan’s been missing for the last half hour. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be too much cause for concern, except for the fact that Happy is currently puking his guts up in the west wing bathroom after taking the little girl to the carnival earlier that afternoon.

“It was the hot dog, I’m sure of it,” the head of security rasped between heaves. “Told Morgan they didn’t taste right.”

The whole compound is on search and rescue duty at the moment. Nat’s just scoping out a third-floor corridor when she hears a small thumping noise from above her. Given that Clint’s at the farm this week, that can only mean one thing.

“Gotcha,” Nat mutters under her breath.

She hoists herself up easily into the ventilation system and listens for the next telltale thump, followed by a tiny sob. Nat crawls toward the noise until she sees the pajama-clad figure curled miserably up in the intersection of two vents.

“Hey Morgan,” Nat says quietly, trying to ignore the pungent smell of vomit as she approaches. “Whatcha doing up here?” 

“Hiding.” Morgan sniffles. “Daddy kept trying to take my temperature and mommy wanted me to drink the pink medicine and it’s really yucky.”

“Yeah, that sounds rough,” Nat agrees, keeping her voice casual. “I don’t like people touching me when I don’t feel good either. But I don’t think staying up here is the best solution.”

“Uncle Clint does it,” the five-year-old protests. 

Nat scoffs. “But Clint doesn’t usually puke in here.” She pauses, recalling last Christmas. “Well, apart from that one time.”

“But I didn’t _ mean _ to,” Morgan moans. “My tummy just started hurting and then…”

“I know,” Nat says, watching the girl swallow hard. “I think you might be a little bit sick from your lunch. How about you come on down from here and we can watch a movie or something? You still haven’t shown me Moana.”

Morgan hesitates. “You won’t try to braid my hair or anything, right?”

Nat holds three fingers to the side of her temple. “Scout’s honor. I’ll sit two cushions away.”

“Okay,” she agrees, finally crawling over. “As long as there’s no cuddles.”

“You’re speaking my language, kid.”


	4. Happy & Bucky + Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: The Desert  
Character: Happy  
Injury/Illness: Migraine  
Caretaker: Bucky  
Bonus: “It’s not as bad as it looks”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [xxx-cat-xxx](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/)!

"The second time in five years?! Who is dumb enough to get kidnapped TWICE in the same country?!"

Bucky doesn’t say anything when Happy complains once again, just focuses on the empty desert road. The man seems perpetually upset, but having his holiday interrupted by his friend and boss going missing - _ again _ \- is probably not fun.

“This is giving me a headache...” Happy moans.

Bucky silently offers him the water bottle, his metal hand still gripping the steering wheel tightly, noticing that it is still almost full. No wonder the other man is feeling the effects of dehydration after their five-hour drive in a vehicle without AC.

“No more manufacturing in the middle east, I swear...”

Now Bucky has had enough. “Why are you even here? If everything is so horrible, I can do this mission just as well alone...”

“Excuse me?! I am the forehead of SI security, my boss gets kidnapped on a business trip, of course I won’t sit back and wait it out!” He descends into a swearing tirade that Bucky pushes to the background of his mind until it abruptly breaks off.

Curious, he turns his head just enough to see that Happy has gone pale in the passenger seat, his white-knuckled hands gripping the water bottle so tightly that it’s starting to get crushed.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound too annoyed.

Happy turns minutely and gives him a glare that might have impressed someone who hasn’t lived through 50 years of Hydra torture. His lips stay clasped together, though.

Bucky shrugs and accelerates, keen on getting done with this mission as soon as possible. Another three minutes pass and he hears an audible gulp from the passenger seat, and then, sweat beading his brow and pain visible in his features, the other man grits out, “Fuck, just stop for a moment.”

Bucky has spent enough afternoons with Steve on rollercoasters that he knows the look of someone who’s about to hurl, so he does as told.

Happy is out of the car quicker than he would’ve thought possible, bracing himself against the open car door when he vomits copiously into the sand. The way Happy’s other hand holds his head when he moans in pain with each retch tells Bucky that this isn’t motion sickness, more likely a migraine.

Bucky doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even ruffle his nose when the stench hits him. He’s seen worse than a bit of vomit. He debates whether or not to try to be helpful, but then, if worse comes to worse, he is going to be stuck with this man for another couple of days. So he grabs the water bottle and a packet of tissues before climbing out of the car and offering them to him.

Happy, miraculously, doesn’t say anything - just grunts in acknowledgment and rinses out his mouth.

“Let’s go,” Bucky urges as soon as it looks like the vomiting is over. “Let’s save Stark and get the hell out of here.”

“Looks more like I’m saving you.” They both spin around when they hear the voice, Happy surprised, Bucky ready to attack. Tony is bruised, battered, and so sunburned that he’s almost unrecognisable, but there’s a smug grin behind his trademark goatee and an honest-to-god _ sunhat _with a pink ribbon sitting on top of his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assures. “Now, let’s blow this popsicle stand. Cheeseburgers are on me.”


	5. Rhodey & Thor + Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Compound  
Character: Rhodey  
Injury/illness: Drunk  
Caretaker: Thor  
Bonus: “Stay down”

Before tonight, Rhodey didn’t know what a swell guy Thor could be. They hit it off at Tony’s New Years party. Most of the attendees had filtered away by two a.m., but for new Bros For Life ™ Rhodey and Thor, the party had just begun.

“I have had a marvelous evening celebrating your Midgardian holiday of the earth completing its annual voyage around the nearest star!” Thor announces jovially as the two stumble into the compound’s kitchen, Rhodey giggling at his description. “My favorite part was that rousing ballad all the men at the bar sang!”

“You mean Auld Lang Syne?” Rhodey laughs. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s aware that they’re being louder than is generally appreciated at five in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to care. His only thoughts at the moment are whether or not there’s any leftover pizza.

“Yes, that one,” Thor says, swinging open the fridge door with such force that it knocks the colonel off balance. Rhodey falls to the ground in a heap. 

“Are you alright?” Thor asks in concern, but Rhodey only laughs harder. He tries to pull himself up, but the combination of his leg braces and current intoxication is not doing him any favors. He flops back down, defeated, dissolving into further peals of laughter.

Thor smiles at him. “Stay down,” he commands. The god moves to the fridge and retrieves a large cardboard box before plopping it down on the marble floor. “I shall bring the feast to you!”


	6. Pepper & Nat + Dislocated Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Car  
Character: Pepper  
Injury/Illness: Dislocated shoulder  
Caretaker: Nat  
Bonus: A horse

“Thanks again for driving me,” Pepper says as she gingerly sits down in the passenger seat of the small car, her left arm braced against her chest.

“No problem,” Nat replies. Her many years of experience as a spy have taught her how to keep all traces of surprise off her features regardless of the situation, but getting a text from Pepper Potts at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning requesting a ride to the ER is not an everyday occurrence. Luckily, Nat’s an expert at rolling with the punches. 

As they pull out of the driveway, she glances sideways at the other woman’s obviously dislocated shoulder. “Want me to pop that back in for you?” she offers casually.

Pepper shakes her head, grimacing. “I’ll just wait for the doctor, thanks.”

Nat shrugs. “Suit yourself. But honestly, I’ve probably got more experience than they do.”

Huffing out a laugh, Pepper says, “That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I heard something snap when it went out, so I think we’d better not touch it.”

Nat hums in response. Keeping her eyes on the road, she reaches under the driver’s seat with one hand and retrieves one of the single-use ice packs she keeps stashed in the vehicle. Given her tendency to dodge post-mission medical evals, her car often functions as a makeshift ambulance for her own injuries. She snaps the packet and shakes it to activate the cold before passing it to Pepper.

Pepper nods her thanks and presses it to the injury with a wince. She’s being unusually quiet, leading Nat to believe that either a) she’s in a lot more pain than she’s letting on, or b) this is the result of something embarrassing. She decides to feel out which one it is.

“Tony out of town today?” Nat asks after a moment, her tone conversational.

“No,” Pepper sighs. “Just sleeping. Didn’t want to wake him.” At Nat’s lack of reply, Pepper adds, “Well, didn’t wanna hear it from him is more like it...”

The pieces are starting to fall into place in Nat’s mind now and a small smile creeps across her lips. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your most recent purchase, would it?”

“It wasn’t his fault!” Pepper says quickly, jumping to her new horse’s defense. “He just got spooked and he overreacted a bit. Really, it’s my fault, not his.”

Nat raises an eyebrow. “Did he see another plastic bag caught in the bushes?”

Pepper’s face flushes pink. “We’re working on it, okay? Just don’t tell Tony—he swore the next time Hobbelton got me hurt, he’d sell him on Craigslist.”

Nat smirks at her. “What do you plan to tell him happened to your shoulder then?”

Pepper hesitates. “That… I fell down the stairs?”

Still smirking, Nat shakes her head slightly as they turn into the emergency room parking lot. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. Cover stories are my specialty.”


	7. Bruce & Steve + Broken Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: The Hilton  
Character: Bruce  
Injury/Illness: Broken leg  
Caretaker: Steve  
Bonus: During a storm

Steve reapproaches the car where Bruce is currently sprawled out across the backseats, his broken leg propped up on two folded jackets and a backpack.

“Alright, I got us a room for the night,” Steve says as he opens the rear door, though Bruce can barely hear him over the sound of the rain pouring down on the hotel awning and the howling wind around them. “It’s actually a suite—I guess Tony called them and upgraded us after he heard what happened on the mission,” he adds, gesturing to the cast.

“Nice of him,” Bruce mutters. The painkillers that they gave him at the hospital are making him feel so tired and out of it that he’s pretty sure he could fall asleep anywhere, but he still appreciates the thought. He’s never stayed at a Hilton before.

“Bad news is that it’s on the twelfth floor,” Steve goes on. “And the storm knocked the power out, so the elevators aren’t working at the moment…”

“...Okay?” It takes Bruce’s unusually foggy brain a second to register exactly why that’s a problem. “Oh. Right. The leg.”

“Yeah…” Steve sighs, awkwardly rubbing a hand at the back of his own neck. “I know you’re not going to like this much, but, well, I do have super strength, so…”

Without another moment’s hesitation, Bruce lifts both arms up to his teammate, much in the way an overtired toddler might do to a parent. “Just don’t drop me,” he mutters under his breath.


	8. Morgan & Peter + Broken Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Meeting  
Character: Morgan  
Illness/Injury: Broken arm  
Caretaker: Peter  
Bonus: “Take off your shoes”

When Peter was little, his make believe games were generally limited to playing “house”, or “school”, or his personal favorite, “science lab”. But given that this kid is the offspring of Pepper Potts and Tony Stark, Morgan’s a bit unique.

“Thank you everyone for coming to the meeting today,” the five-year-old begins. Peter’s seated opposite her in the treehouse, cross-legged on the floor in front of the kiddie table. To his right and left sit an array of stuffed animals—all of which are wearing clumsily-knotted silk ties—and stacks of paper covered in scribbles are placed in front of each attendee. 

“No problem,” Peter replies in his best business voice. He folds his hands on the desk and leans forward. “What’s on the agenda today, boss?”

Morgan is wearing one of Pepper’s old blazers (Peter had to roll the sleeves up five times to make her hands visible) and her hair is pulled into a tight, though somewhat lopsided, ponytail. Her face screws up in thought. “Um… we need to talk about spreadsheets.”

Peter grins at her—he has the feeling she’ll make a fine CEO some day. “Spreadsheets, huh? Okay. What exactly do you want to discuss about them?”

“Hmm…” She picks up her Stark Industries mug and takes a sip, leaving a chocolate milk mustache over her lip. “The spreadsheets say we need to fire Mr. Snuggles.”

Gasping, Peter throws a hand over his heart. “Mr. Snuggles?!”

“Yes.” Morgan nods solemnly. “He drew on the wall with the highlighters. _ And _ he ate all the donuts without sharing.”

Peter whips his head around to stare at the teddy bear in question. “Mr. Snuggles, how could you?!” he demands.

(The bear says nothing, though Peter thinks he does look quite guilty.)

“You’re fired! I’m throwing you out!” Morgan declares gleefully. She grabs the teddy by the paw and marches over to the treehouse entrance, wobbling on the far-too-big high heeled shoes she’s currently wearing. 

Peter’s eyes widen in alarm and he starts to get up. “Whoa, hey, careful—”

It all happens in a split second. Before Peter can react, Morgan trips forward and falls right out of the treehouse door with a cry of surprise.

“Morgan!” Peter yelps, scrambling to his feet and racing to the door. He can see the little girl lying crumpled on the grass, looking stunned.

“Don’t move! I’ll be right there!” He ignores the ladder entirely in favor of leaping down and drops to his knees beside her, his eyes immediately going to her right arm, which is bent at an unnatural angle. 

Morgan’s gaze follows his, and only once she sees the injured limb does she burst into tears. “It h-hurts!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Peter assures, hovering his hand over her arm but not quite letting his fingers brush it. “You’re gonna be fine.” He starts to pull his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call your dad, just—”

“No!” Morgan chokes out between sobs. “You ca-an’t! I’ll get in t-trouble.”

“No, no you won’t,” Peter promises. _ If anyone is getting in trouble here, _ he thinks to himself, _ it’s me. _ “It was an accident. Your dad will come and get you fixed up and—”

“No...” Morgan moans. “He said I c-couldn’t wear Mommy’s Valentino shoes anymore and I t-took them anyway and I’ll get in trouble now!”

Frowning, Peter gives her a skeptical look. “I really don’t think you’ll be in _ trouble_…”

“Yes I will!” she cries. “He said if I take them again, no more candy for a _ whole month_.”

Peter blows out a low whistle. “Okay, I guess it’s pretty serious then.” At Morgan’s tear-filled nod of confirmation, he sits back on his heels and sighs. “Alright, here’s the plan. We’ll take off your shoes and hide them,” he decides. “But then we call your dad.” 

Morgan sniffles. “O-Okay.”

Peter reaches up and wipes a tear from her eyes with his thumb. “In the meantime…” He picks up the discarded bear from where he lies on the ground and nestles it into the crook of her good arm. “I think we need to reemploy Mr. Snuggles.”


	9. Hulk & Rhodey + Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Space  
Character: Hulk  
Illness: Fever  
Caretaker: Rhodey  
Bonus: Screaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by [sallyidss](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/)!

“Are you sure you know where you’re going, Bruce?”

“Yes,” the scientist replies, wiping sweat from his brow in the close quarters of the spaceship. “If my calculations are right, and I’m sure they are…there’s a singularity above Antarctica that will lead straight to Alfheim.”

“How do you even know how to fly this thing?” Rhodey looks around the colourful cockpit of the Sakaarian spacecraft.

Bruce presses his lips together. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, as long as we find Thor, I guess it doesn’t matter. Remind me again what he’s doing on Alfheim?”

“He apparently needed a break from Quill and the other Guardians. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, they needed a break from him.” Bruce takes off his blazer. It’s pretty warm in the cockpit. “So he went to Alfheim on vacation but was so taken with the elves that now he doesn’t want to leave. But given Loki’s plans for Earth, we really need to convince him to come and help.”

“I still don’t understand how the Loki from that other timeline ended up here, with the tesseract.”

“Me neither,” sighs Bruce. “None of that time travel shit made any sense. OK, we should be entering the singularity momentarily. Hold on!”

Rhodey buckles himself into his seat and the spaceship surges through the wormhole that just opened up in front of them.

“Woo!” he hollers as they hurtle down the colourful space corridor.

They exit the wormhole to the sight of a beautiful blue and green planet dead ahead. It’s Alfheim.

“Yes!” shouts Rhodey. “You did it, Bruce! High five!”

Bruce doesn’t high five him. He looks kind of pale.

“Bruce? You OK?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce breathes. “I thought it was just hot in here, but…oh shit.”

“What is it?”

“I think I have a fever. Oh _ shit.” _

“Well, are you feeling well enough to fly? I think I have some Tylenol, that might hel—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Bruce is straining now, like he’s fighting against something in his mind, something Rhodey can’t see. “Anytime I get a fever…well…the Other Guy sort of…comes out. And he’s never too happy about it.”

“_ What?” _ cries Rhodey. “Well then quick, take the damn Tylenol, now!” He fumbles in his pocket to find the travel-sized container he often brings with him on missions. “Aha. Got it!”

But it’s too late. When he looks back up to offer the pill to Bruce, he’s not there. Instead, he’s staring up into the eyes of a very angry Hulk. The cabin of the Grand Master’s ship suddenly seems way too small.

“Hey buddy,” he starts calmly. “Remember me? Rhodey.”

Hulk growls. “Rhodey. Hulk remember. Hulk feel sick. Puny Banner always goes away when sick. Hulk hate sick!” He looks around the cabin and out the front window of the ship, and roars. “And Hulk hate space!” He flattens the passenger chair beside him with one great fist.

“Whoa whoa, it’s OK there, Hulk. I’m gonna help you out, alright?” He squeezes around Hulk with some difficulty and straps himself into the pilot’s seat of the ship. “I’ve never flown one of these before, but then what are test pilots for?” He takes the controls and starts heading toward the planet. “See that planet over there? That’s Alfheim. The elves there have medicine. They can make you feel better. But you just have to not smash anything until we land, OK?” He thinks a moment then adds, “Or after we land, please.”

“Rhodey hurry!” Hulk’s voice sounds as plaintive as Rhodey has ever heard it, if still quite angry. “Hulk hate fever. Hulk always hot. Now even hotter. Hulk want medicine now!”

Praying that he’s right about the elves having something to help, Rhodey quickens the pace, and a moment later, they enter the atmosphere. He manages to pull up a map of the planet on his dashboard and directs the ship to land at one of several spaceship docking stations on the surface.

* * *

Trello the Air Elf, the docking station’s only diplomat, is just finishing up his lunch break when he hears of the foreign spaceship from Midgard that has just landed. He dons his ceremonial robe and excitedly walks out to the platform where it’s docked so he can greet the new arrivals. They don’t get visitors from Midgard very often. He can’t wait to practice his diplomacy. He breaks into a run when he realizes he’ll be one of the last to arrive on the platform.

But when he steps onto the platform and catches sight of the ship, the first thing he hears is a mighty roar, followed by the screams of the other members of the elvish greeting party as they scatter in every direction away from the ship.

“Well shit,” he mutters. “This is going to be a long day.”


	10. Natasha & Natasha + Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: HYDRA  
Character: Nat  
Injury/Illness: Flu  
Caretaker: Nat  
Bonus: Stan Lee cameo

“This is all your fault,” Natasha mutters at the woman sitting across from her in the dimly lit cell of the HYDRA base prison.

“My fault?” the red-haired woman retorts. She’s dressed in all black combat clothing and is pressing a bloodied rag to the bleeding cut over her eye. “_You’re _ the one who didn’t double-check that that guard was truly out.”

“No, _ I _ was erasing the hard drive,” Nat argues. “_You _ were supposed to take out the guard.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “That is not what we agreed on. I was supposed to seduce the lieutenant into giving me the access codes for the control room while you handled security and cleared the hard drive. But instead of that, where was I? Trying to save your ass after you fucked up yet another mission, Romanoff.”

Nat flips her off. “Screw you.” She crosses her arms and turns around to face the other direction in the small cell, feeling almost childishly defiant. A chill runs through her and she huddles more into herself.

“You’re not looking too hot, you know,” her cellmate says after a moment. 

Nat rolls her eyes, which she immediately regrets as it causes the pounding in her skull to intensify. “You’re one to talk with that head wound of yours…” she mutters irritably.

“You should lie down or something,” the voice continues. “I think you might be hallucinating.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Nat scoffs hotly. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Technically, you’re talking to _ you_,” the hallucination corrects. “And at this point, I’m not even sure if that’s from the fever or the concussion.”

Just then, there’s a banging on the door of the cell. Nat pushes herself up a little straighter against the wall, trying not to look as utterly weak and drained as she feels with this very inconveniently-timed flu bug she seems to have acquired.

“Hey! Keep it down in there!” a raspy voice hollers. “I’m trying to do the crossword!”

Nat lets herself slide back down against the wall and curl up on the cold ground. Perhaps the most humiliating part of this whole kidnapping experience is that the guard HYDRA posted outside her cell has to be at least ninety-five. Guess she doesn’t appear to be much of a threat at the moment. “Sorry, Stan,” she croaks. Under her breath, she mutters, “We’ll keep it down…”

Hopefully the team finds her soon.


	11. Bruce & Clint + Animal Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Stark Tower  
Character: Bruce  
Injury/Illness: Animal bite  
Caretaker: Clint  
Bonus: Hiding illness

“You know, you’re really lucky the Other Guy didn’t show up and beat the crap out of that_ flea magnet... _” Bruce grumbles, glaring down at the black and gray crossbreed hiding behind Clint.

Clint gives a small smile as he wraps Bruce’s bleeding hand in a kitchen towel. “I thought you were a dog person, Bruce.” 

“I am.” Bruce inhales sharply when Clint adds a bit more pressure to the wound. “I just usually prefer the ones that don’t try to bite my hand off. Where did you get him from anyway?”

Clint shrugs. “Outside.”

“Outside?!” Bruce exclaims. Jerking his right hand back from the archer's grip, he holds it to his own chest. “That thing probably has rabies and god knows what else!” The dog barks at Bruce’s sudden outburst, causing him to jump in surprise. He’s not about to get his other hand mutilated too. 

“Relax, Big Guy. You’re up to date with all your shots, aren’t you? You’ll be fine,” Clint assures, patting Bruce’s shoulder.

Exasperated, Bruce runs his good hand over his face. It is way too early to be dealing with Barton’s bullshit. All the scientist wanted this morning was a nice cup of tea and some breakfast. Was that too much to ask around here?

“I thought, after the last time, Tony specifically said no more dogs in the tower.”

“...Which is why you’re gonna keep this between us,” Clint says, gesturing to the three of them. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow at Clint, waving his injured hand in front of his face. “How exactly am I going to explain this? I probably need stitches!”

“Aww, come on...” Clint bends down to put his arms around the dog before pulling it into a hug. “You can’t stay mad at Brutus! Look at his cute little face.”

“You gave it a name already?” Bruce demands, then scoffs and shakes his head slowly. “What am I saying, of course you did. You know you can’t keep it right? Tony will kill you.”

“He can try, but he has to go through Brutus first,” Clint declares while petting the animal. The dog starts wagging his tail excitedly. “And you know how well that went the last time,” he goes on.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce turns on his heel and stalks off back to his room.


	12. Peter, Bruce & Tony + Motion Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Spaceship  
Characters: Peter and Bruce  
Injury/Illness: Motion Sickness  
Caretaker: Tony  
Bonus: Popcorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, I totally blame Cecily for this (and Bethany, you too. But also thank you for beta reading). This is very crack and kind of gross. You have been warned.

“So, where do you wanna go first?” Tony asks with a more than smug grin on his face. “The moon, Saturn, Alpha Centauri? The galaxy’s at our doorstep.”

Peter has to work quite a bit until he can talk. Within minutes of Tony’s brand new spaceship taking off, the earth has shrunk to a fist-sized blue ball just visible through the window next to him. “I - wow,” he manages.

“Lost for words?” Tony beams. “Rightly so. What about you, Big Green?”

“I’ve been on a spaceship before, Tony,” Bruce reminds him from where he is sitting across from Peter. “But I gotta say, it’s nice not being shot at for once. Gives you time to appreciate the view.”

“Great.” Tony claps him on the shoulder before settling down in the cockpit. “We’re about to go for a wormhole dive. Enjoy the show, boys. Anybody want popcorn?”

Twenty minutes later, Peter is sure that he’s seen so much of the universe that his brain will take at least a few years to catch up. Space is mesmerising, but it turns out it also provides the perfect opportunity for Tony to fully indulge in his speed craze. Peter has witnessed the man soaring recklessly through the skies in his suits and driving cars like a maniac, but that’s nothing compared to what he can do now with a vehicle that moves in virtually all possible directions. 

Unfortunately, this also means that the motion sickness Peter sometimes tends to experience in cars is exponentially worsened. He is trying his best to enjoy, but his stomach is making that increasingly difficult. Peter doesn’t want to disappoint his mentor, so he just rests his head against the window, pretending to look outside as the ship ‘space jumps’ through yet another wormhole, feeling tired and very, very sick.

“Bruciebear? You doing okay?” Peter is ripped out of his thoughts a few minutes later when Tony addresses the scientist. “FRIDAY tells me your heart rate is elevated.”

Peter turns his head, trying to keep his stomach in place, and glances at Bruce. The scientist’s face has taken on a greenish tinge.

Bruce swallows visibly, then wipes away the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “’m not sure,” he replies.

“Feeling hulky-dulky? Dude, this is a stress-free environment - there is literally not a single human around for millions of miles,” Tony says over his shoulder.

“Not gonna hulk out,” Bruce mumbles. “But I think I need the bathroom…” 

Tony frowns. “Yeah, well, you can’t really unbuckle the seatbelts until we’ve completed the jump…”

“Then”—Bruce swallows again with visible difficulty—“then I need a plastic bag.”

“What?” Tony turns away from the console and fully takes in his friend’s hunched-over posture and ghostly pallor. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Um,” Peter pipes up, stifling a sick burp into his sleeve, “I think I need one too.”

Tony turns his head from Bruce to Peter with an incredulous look. “Well, I don’t think we have any,” he says after a beat. “This is a spaceship, not Walmart.”

Peter gulps. His mentor may be used to flying upside down all the time, but this is very far from Peter’s usual swings between buildings. He squeezes his eyes shut when the ship turns a corner inside the wormhole - or at least that’s what it feels like to Peter - and another wave of nausea washes over him. 

Bruce makes a noise extremely close to a gag that sends Tony into action. “Okay, just hold on.” The engineer dumps the leftover popcorn onto the floor and tosses an empty container to each of them. “Shit, we can’t even stop right now - we’re in the middle of a wormhole.”

Peter tries his best to keep his breathing shallow and his mouth closed, but he is already past the point of no return. The sweetish smell of popcorn wafting up from the receptacle is the final straw. Just when the ship completes the space jump with a violent lurch, he doubles over and throws up copiously into the container.

The problem is that when the ship exits the wormhole, it takes a few moments to restore the artificial gravity. Without gravity, everything starts to float, including—to Peter’s horror—his own puke. It hovers out of the popcorn container and forms a shapeless ball in the air, looking kind of like an extremely ugly soap bubble. 

“Oh my god,” Peter croaks. His insides contract again. He tries to swallow it down, but his angry stomach sends up another wave of vomit that immediately hovers upwards to join the rest. 

“What. The actual. Fuck.” Tony’s eyes follow the floating puke bubble with an expression of horror. “Please tell me this is just another nightmare.”

Before anyone can react, gravity is suddenly restored. The puke bubble seems to freeze mid-air for a split second. Then it drops down and hits the control panel with a splatter. 

“Shit!” Tony jerks back reflexively from the controls, which makes the ship swerve. Peter’s insides twist again and Bruce emits an audible moan. “I swear, out of all places on this spaceship -”

Tony is interrupted by the sound of retching, now coming from Bruce, who is bent over his container, throwing up into it noisily. 

“Why do you even still have physical controls?” the scientist moans when he surfaces. “Can’t you use”—he draws in a shaky breath—“holograms?”

“They’re hard to see without reading glasses, okay?” Tony defends, rather aggressively. With a look of disgust on his face, he extends his pinky finger to hit one of the buttons that is not entirely covered in vomit. The ship finally comes to a standstill. “But that’s beside the point! Why can’t I have one. single. vacation. without stuff like this happening?”

“I am so, so sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter croaks before shoving his head back into the popcorn container to bring up a mouthful of bile. “It’s just so _fast_.”

“_Of course_ it’s fast. That’s what it’s supposed to be! We can’t cross outer space on a bicycle!”

“I know, I know,” Peter moans, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand before leaning his head back against the seat. 

On the other side, Bruce lets out a groan. “I was wrong. This is so much worse than being shot at.”

Tony’s expression softens upon seeing their shared misery. He produces a bottle of water from the minibar integrated below his seat and hands it to Peter. “Well, I guess I should have taken it a bit slower the first time.” He sighs and turns back to the controls. “FRIDAY, call Thor. Tell him we need to find an intergalactic car wash.”


	13. Steve, Peter & Tony + Nosebleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Golf cart  
Character: Steve  
Injury/Illness: Nosebleed  
Caretaker: Tony & Peter  
Bonus: Skateboard

Despite his sarcastic demeanor, Tony is a big believer in encouraging people to follow their dreams. 

When Pepper said she wanted to take up her old horse-riding hobby last year, he’d grumbled at first, but still bought her Hobbleton—a hundred-thousand dollar prize show jumper. When Bruce mentioned that he found gardening relaxing, Tony built him an elegant custom-made conservatory. When Happy expressed interest in pursuing a culinary passion, Tony arranged ten private cooking lessons with celebrity chef Emeril Lagasse.

So after initially yelling at the kid for crashing into him while skateboarding down one of the compound’s indoor corridors, Tony couldn’t help himself but to install a full-size skatepark for Peter on the edge of the compound’s property (right next to Natasha’s paintball arena).

Today, he’s regretting that.

“Peter?” Tony calls worriedly, pulling up in a golf cart just outside the massive half-pipe. He jumps out of the vehicle and heads for the path. “Where are you?”

“Down here!” Peter’s voice replies. “By the stairs!”

Tony hurries over. There’s a ramp blocking his view, which gives him time to imagine exactly what kind of horrific accident must have occurred to result in Peter’s urgent text asking if Doctor Cho was in today.

Still, he isn’t remotely prepared for the sight that greets him.

Peter is knelt at the base of the staircase, shirtless, pressing his formerly light gray t-shirt to the very crooked and heavily bleeding nose of a dazed-looking Captain America.

Tony blinks. “What the…?”

Peter throws him a pained look. “I _ told him _ not to try boardsliding a handrail on his first day out, but he was all like”—he puts on a deep mocking voice—“_I once jumped out of a plane into the ocean without a parachute and survived, I think I can handle four steps, Peter_.” He groans. “But then he had to go and face-plant straight into the concrete.”

Tony blinks again. “You were skateboarding with _ Steve?” _

Peter shrugs. “He wanted to try it.” Lowering his voice, Peter holds a hand up to the side of his mouth and adds in a whisper, “He’s not very good.”

Steve moans a bit.

Tony snorts. “You get it on video?”

Grinning, Peter gives a little nod.

Through the shirt, Steve mutters nasally, “Think my nose ‘s’ broken…”

Heaving out a sigh, Tony helps Peter hoist the soldier to his feet. “Alright, grandpa. That’s enough hanging with the cool kids for one day... “ he grumbles as they make their way back to their makeshift golf cart ambulance.


	14. Tony & Peter + Cracked Ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Denny's  
Character: Tony  
Injury/Illness: cracked ribs  
Caregiver: Peter  
Bonus: 2 a.m.
> 
> (So sorry, Cecily, I cheated and flipped the whumpee and caregiver to make it work better.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I published two new fics in the past two days. One covered the topic of [sex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21956731), and one covered the topic of [drugs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21895345), so it only made sense on the third day to do a drabble that covers the topic of rock and roll, to complete the trifecta :D

“Well,” says Tony, clutching his side (where Peter is fairly certain his mentor has cracked at least a couple ribs), “that did not go as planned.”

Peter spares a glance at Tony before returning his eyes to the road. It’s difficult to see his face in the darkness of the car since it’s nearly 2 a.m., but he can make out the man’s split lip, and can tell from his voice that he’s definitely in some pain, thanks to his antics tonight.

“So you agree that the mosh pit was a bad idea,” Peter says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“I said nothing of the sort,” huffs Tony. “It was a Phish concert, you don’t go to a Phish concert without moshing a little. Take the next left,” he adds.

Peter obliges. “Maybe so,” he says. “But I wouldn’t call _that_ ‘moshing a little’.”

Tony scoffs, but then lets out a weak groan at the apparent pain that the action causes.

After a moment, Peter continues. “You gotta admit that joining the wall of death was a bad idea.”

“No way, kid, the wall of death is the best part!” Tony objects. “But in hindsight,” he amends, “maybe going right in front wasn’t the best idea. The elbows are a killer there.” He reaches up and gingerly touches his bloody lip before adding, “Take a right at the next light.”

“And the crowdsurfing?” Peter asks, changing lanes to make the turn. “Tell me you regret the crowdsurfing.” That is, after all, how Tony injured his ribs.

“Regret is irrelevant,” replies Tony. “You do not go to a Phish concert without crowdsurfing. Rhodey and I do it every time. We even used to stage dive back in the day. Shame they banned it.”

Peter laughs and shakes his head. When Tony invited him to come with him to the concert because Rhodey couldn’t make it, Peter was thrilled to join him. He had never even heard of Phish before, but he had enjoyed all the other old music that Tony had introduced him to in the past couple years. Plus, there was that Billy Joel concert at Madison Square Garden that they attended together earlier in the year, and they had a perfectly good, perfectly  _ normal _ time there.

He had no idea that the Phish concert would be like  _ that _ . 

“Next left,” Tony says.

Peter frowns, suddenly realizing something. “Wait a minute, this isn’t the way to the hospital.”

“Who said anything about a hospital?”

“What?”

“Pull in here.”

Peter looks where Tony is pointing. It’s a Denny’s.

“Mr. Stark, what—”

“Just do it,” Tony insists.

Peter does so reluctantly. What on earth does Tony want with a Denny’s at two in the morning?

Tony opens the car door and goes to get out, but then hisses in pain and leans back down against his seat. “Little help here?” he prompts.

“Huh?” Peter is so confused. “You want to  _ eat _ here?”

“Uh, yeah?” Tony looks like Peter’s confusion is confusing him.

“Did you hit your head, Mr. Stark?” That’s really the only possible explanation for him wanting to eat at this run-down old restaurant in the middle of the night. “We really should go to the hospital.”

Tony rolls his eyes impatiently. “We can go after. Maybe. Now c’mon, I need a hand up.”

Peter doesn’t move yet, still not convinced that this isn’t a joke. “You’re serious?”

“Hell yes I’m serious.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s tradition! Rhodey and I went to our first Phish concert in ‘89, and we had smoked so much” —he gives Peter a sidelong glance—”uh, so many  _ Marlboros, _ ” (Peter rolls his eyes at Tony’s lame attempt at a cover) “that we were starving when we left the concert. We walked around for what seemed like hours, but it was after midnight and everything was closed. We couldn’t find a cab because of the rest of the crowd leaving the concert at the same time. Finally like a mile from the stadium, we rounded a corner and beheld the most glorious sight we’d ever laid eyes on.”

“Denny’s,” says Peter flatly.

“Denny’s,” Tony confirms. “I swear to god, we were happier to see that shithole than we were about anything else in our entire lives up to that point. And probably since. That Grand Slam breakfast was like heaven on a plate.” He pauses and adjusts his position on the passenger seat. “Anyway, we’ve gone to like ten Phish concerts together since then and  _ always _ got Denny’s afterward. So we  _ have _ to go.”

“But Rhodey’s not here this time,” argues Peter.

Tony grunts. “Yeah, I still can’t believe he blew me off for that wedding.”

“He’s best man at the  _ vice president’s _ wedding, Mr. Stark! He couldn’t exactly change the date.”

“Still,” Tony says with a small shrug. “Anyway he’s expecting a picture from Denny’s, and I’m not about to bail on tradition, just because  _ he  _ did.” He shakes his head in disappointment and frowns. But then something seems to occur to him, and he turns to Peter, his expression softening. “Though I am glad you could come instead.”

Peter smiles. “Me too.” He opens his car door, but then turns back to Tony. “But hospital after,” he says firmly.

”Ugh.” Tony is clearly not happy about Peter’s insistence. “Fine, how ‘bout I call Banner to meet us at the compound’s Medbay in a couple hours? That good enough for you,  _ dad _ ?” he asks in mock irritation.

“Alright, son,” Peter replies, putting on a formal tone. “But any more mosh pit shenanigans from you, and you’re grounded, mister.”

Tony starts laughing at Peter’s impression, but quickly cuts it short with a loud groan of pain. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh, kid!” he manages.

“Crap! Sorry!” Peter says quickly, but Tony waves off his apology. Peter looks at him and can’t help but add, “Are you  _ sure _ you don’t just want to go to the Medbay now?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Stop talking crazy. Now c’mon. There’s a Grand Slam in there with my name on it.”


	15. Steve & Bucky + Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Steve’s apartment  
Character: Steve  
Injury/Illness: Fever  
Caretaker: Bucky  
Bonus: "Don't worry"

“Buck…? Can you…um…Help?”

At the sound of Steve’s weak voice, Bucky abandons the pot of soup he’s been stirring on the stove and hurries back into the living room where his flu-ridden boyfriend has been taking up residence for the past two days. “What’s going on?” he asks in concern.

Steve has pushed himself up halfway to sitting and is staring down at himself under the blanket, looking very distressed. “I think… I think I had an accident.”

Bucky frowns, crossing the room toward him. “What do you mean?” Then suddenly he sees the brown stain on his boyfriend’s pajama bottoms and it clicks. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Um, okay. We can deal with that.”

“I-I don’t know what happened,” Steve murmurs, his eyes glassy with fever. “Didn’t feel anything… just woke up and there was…” He trails off.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky assures. “You’re sick—it’s fine. Let’s just get you to the bathroom.” 

Steve nods wearily, so Bucky helps to hoist him up to his feet. “‘m so sorry,” he mutters, swaying dizzily. “God, the couch…”

“I’m sure it can be cleaned,” Bucky says, glancing behind him at the sofa. Honestly, he is far less worried about the furniture than he is the fact that his boyfriend is apparently so ill he’s lost control of bodily functions. 

...Or maybe not?

“Hang on,” Bucky says, suddenly noticing the silver wrapper on the cushion. “Did you ever finish that Hershey bar you were eating earlier?”

“Uh… I-I don’ remember...” Steve mumbles.

Instant relief washes over Bucky, so much that he can't help but to huff out a half-laugh.

Steve looks so confused he might cry. “Huh?”

“You didn’t shit yourself, babe,” Bucky explains gently. “You just slept on a chocolate bar. It melted.”

Steve blinks slowly. “...I did?”

Bucky sighs, pressing his palm to Steve’s feverish forehead. “Yeah. Kinda like your brain is doing right now.” He shifts to wrap his boyfriend’s arm around his shoulders. “‘C’mon, let’s get you into a nice cool bath…” he says as they shuffle away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (What can I say ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ we're actual 12-years-olds at heart)


	16. Nat & Tony + Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Gala  
Character: Nat  
Injury/Illness: Migraine  
Caretaker: Tony  
Bonus: "I think I'm dying"

The throbbing behind Nat’s left eye is to the point where even _ she _recognizes she shouldn’t have come tonight.

When Steve picked her up earlier that evening to carpool to the charity gala, she thought she’d be able to tough out her building migraine with a couple Excedrin and the double-shot Americano she’d made Steve stop at Starbucks for on the ride over. She made it all the way through the cocktail hour and the three-course dinner by discreetly sipping ginger ale from a champagne glass and nodding along to her tablemates’ droning conversation. Only once was she forced to excuse herself from the table, and even then she’d managed to make it all the way to the toilets in the back hall by the kitchen before puking up the pepper-crusted filet mignon she’d just eaten.

(She was fucking _ fine_, thank you very much.)

But as the night wore on, the odd looks she was getting from others seemed to indicate that her façade was starting to crumble, and that’s when she’d slipped away in search of a place to crash.

That was over an hour ago, and Nat’s still curled up on the sofa in the dimly lit backstage room. She’s been debating ordering an Uber, but that would require her pounding skull to let her look at her phone screen longer than ten seconds without vomiting, which seems rather optimistic at the moment.

Her thoughts are interrupted by four high-pitched beeps of the electronic lock on the greenroom door, followed by the low buzzing sound of denied access. There’s another four beeps, then some muffled cursing. Nat would roll her eyes if they weren’t currently being drilled into her skull by this fucking headache.

On the third try, the code is finally accepted and the door swings open. Nat flinches at the sudden brightness filtering into the dark room, but she can still make out a familiar figure as he stumbles in and makes a beeline for the small trashcan near the snack counter. He drops to his knees and starts retching into it, the pungent smell of alcohol and vomit filling the room.

Nat swallows hard to keep her own stomach in place. “Do you have to do that here?” she complains, her voice coming out low and croaky.

Tony startles, then looks up from the can and squints in the direction of the couch. “Nat? ‘s that you?” her drunken friend slurs.

“There’s a perfectly good bathroom down the hall,” she points out, breathing carefully through her mouth.

Tony’s face wrinkles up. “Someone was puking in there,” he rasps. “Was gross.” Suddenly, he drops his head back into the bin and retches again.

Nat squeezes her eye shut, trying to ignore the sick sounds. “I can imagine.”

When he’s finally done, Tony extends a leg backwards to kick the door behind him shut, returning the room to its former blissful darkness. He then proceeds to more or less crawl over to the sofa and drag himself up onto it before slumping back against the cushions with a heavy sigh.

“I think I’m dying,” he announces.

“Get in line,” Nat murmurs. She presses her palm against her left eye socket, hoping the pressure might somehow counteract the throbbing.

Tony raises an eyebrow at her. “Migraine?”

She hums in affirmation.

“Ah… that sucks,” Tony sympathizes. “I’ll call us a ride.” He slides his phone out of his pocket, but instantly grimaces at the sudden brightness and lowers it back down. “Maybe in a minute. Or two.” 

“Hm.” The smallest of smiles creeps across Nat’s lips. “Take your time.”


	17. Bucky & Steve + Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Barton Farm  
Character: Bucky  
Injury/illness: Infection  
Caretaker: Steve  
Bonus: No phone service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [sallyidss](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading and [awesomesockes](http://awesomesockes.tumblr.com/) for plot help!

The locked farmhouse door swings open after a single well-placed kick from the supersoldier. Steve blinks in surprise. “That’s… very poor security.”

Bucky hums, sweat beading on his brow as he leans against the porch railing for support. “Knowing Barton, he’s prob’ly got boobytraps in there somewhere…” he mutters.

“Well that’s a risk we’ll just have to take,” Steve sighs. He loops Bucky’s arm around his own shoulders—earning a hiss of pain from his injured partner—and starts slowly shuffling him inside.

Sunlight is streaming in through the farmhouse windows, making the place feel especially warm and homey. The living room floor is littered with Duplo blocks and picture boardbooks, and the kitchen table contains remnants of some kind of craft project involving hot glue and popsicle sticks.

“Clint? Laura?” Steve calls hesitantly. “Anybody home?”

Aside from a quiet meow from the tabby cat perched on the counter, there’s no response. With a sigh, he carefully deposits Bucky down onto the sofa. Bucky grunts sharply and squeezes his eyes shut against the pain.

Steve helps wrestle Bucky’s jacket and shirt off of his feverish skin, muttering apologies as he does so. The wound on his side looks even worse than it did that morning when they’d first escaped the HYDRA holding facility—a five-inch long gash, the edges angrily red and weeping pus.

“I’m gonna see what medical supplies I can scrounge up,” Steve says, getting to his feet.

Bucky grunts in acknowledgement, so Steve quickly makes his way to the master bathroom and starts raiding the cabinets for supplies. He’s almost starting to regret commandeering Barton’s home as a makeshift safehouse as he moves aside some prescription strength athlete’s foot spray and a tube of hemorrhoid cream, but soon comes up with latex gloves, a stack of sterile gauze pads, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He gathers these together along with a few towels and the room’s small trash can before jogging back to the living room.

“Alright, let’s get that wound cle—” Steve cuts himself off, noticing the tabby cat curled up on Bucky’s lap. “Buck!” he snaps.

Bucky is leant back against the sofa cushions with his eyes closed, stroking the feline’s fur gently with one hand. “She likes me,” he murmurs while the cat purrs in assent.

Steve—who has always been more of a dog person himself—frowns. “Well, she’s gonna have to skedaddle,” he says, moving over to his boyfriend. “You’ve got an open wound that’s about to turn septic. The last thing we need is cat hair in it.”

“Ugh,” Bucky moans tiredly. “You make her leave then.”

“Alright.” Steve sets his makeshift hospital down before reaching out to scoop the fluffy creature up into his arms, but she hisses sharply and claws him.

Steve yelps and draws his arm back, blood already starting to form from the deep scratch on his arm. 

His eyes glassy with fever, Bucky giggles under his breath. “Found the boobytrap.”

Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky prods the cat out of the way. She hops down from his lap and stalks off to the kitchen, seeming rather offended.

“Sorry, girl,” Bucky whispers while Steve starts laying towels down to protect the sofa.

“Alright, this isn’t going to be fun,” Steve warns, uncapping the bottle of peroxide.

“When has life ever been fun for us?” Bucky deadpans.

Steve huffs out a short laugh. “Don’t turn emo on me now,” he says as he pours the disinfectant over the wound.

Teeth gritted, Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him. “Emo?”

“I don’t know.” Steve shrugs. “It’s something Peter says.”

“Hm.” Bucky nods.

Steve makes quick work of cleaning out the wound and dressing it with gauze. Bucky is quiet through most of it, only offering the occasional grunt or hiss of pain. When he’s done, Steve tugs his gloves off and sits back with a sigh.

“We really need to get you on some antibiotics, but I didn’t see any back there,” Steve says grimly.

Bucky is breathing carefully through his mouth. “It’s just as well,” he mutters. “Don’t think I’d keep ‘em down right now...”

Warily, Steve moves the trash can a little closer to the sofa. “This is here if you need it, okay?”

Bucky makes a small noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, and Steve flips on the TV to give him a bit of distraction. An infomercial for a personal-sized blender called ‘The Magic Bullet’ starts playing in the background, which Steve figures is as good as anything.

With Bucky situated, Steve starts searching for some way of contacting the team. Hope flickers in his chest at the sight of the old rotary dial phone on the kitchen wall, but quickly dies out again when he realizes it’s been disconnected. There’s a laptop on the table covered in colorful stickers which he assumes belongs to Lila, and he’s just managed to turn it on when he hears voices approaching from outside and whirls around from the table just as the porch door swings open.

Everything happens in a split-second. There’s the sound of Laura’s startled cry, instantly followed by Clint whipping a gun out of a concealed holster and training it at Bucky’s head. 

“Don’t shoot!” Steve cries, throwing his hands up in the air. “It’s just us!”

Clint blinks and slowly lowers the gun, looking flummoxed. “Steve? Bucky?”

Just then, Bucky lurches forward and gags into the trash can. Clint’s eyes widen and Steve hurries over to support his boyfriend.

“Gross,” Lila complains, wrinkling up her nose. Cooper flicks her arm reprovingly.

“Alright, kids, let’s go back outside,” Laura orders. She gathers little Nate up into her arms and starts ushering the other two back out the door. “Your dad’s got some friends he needs to take care of…”


	18. Peter & Happy + Choking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Parker apartment  
Character: Peter  
Injury/Illness: Choking  
Caretaker: Happy  
Bonus: 2 a.m.

It’s two a.m. Peter is sitting on his bed, tossing back peanut M&Ms while watching YouTube off his phone and trying to wind down after a particularly eventful evening patrol. Earlier in the day, he overheard a tip about a high-stakes drug deal set to go down by the harbor at midnight. Armed with this intel, he snuck out after May was asleep—well past his curfew—and put the kibosh on that. Now he’s back in his bedroom, waiting for the adrenaline to leave his system so he can finally get some shut eye.

But just as he stuffs another handful of candy into his mouth, a particularly hilarious clip from the ‘Top Gear bloopers compilation’ video catches him off guard. He sucks in a sharp inhale at the same moment that he barks out a laugh, somehow sending an M&M flying toward the back of his throat.

Peter gags, feeling the candy lodge itself in his windpipe. He covers his mouth with his elbow to muffle the noise from his sleeping aunt in the other room and tries to cough it back out. 

Nothing happens. 

He tries again. Then again. To his horror, no sound comes out of his mouth at all—not even a wheeze. He doubles over himself, trying desperately to force air out of his lungs, yet aside from the tears springing to his eyes, nothing comes out. 

Screw it, he needs help.

In a panic, Peter bolts out of his room and stumbles down the hall toward May’s bedroom. He raises a hand up to pound on the door, but before he can manage, it swings open and his fist collides with a sturdy torso that definitely doesn’t belong to his aunt.

Peter’s eyes go wide. 

Happy is standing there in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt, glaring tiredly at him. “It’s the middle of the night—you’re making a racket,” he grumbles.

Getting over his initial shock at seeing SI’s Head of Security standing in the doorway to his aunt’s bedroom at two in the morning, Peter turns his attention back to the mission at hand. He points urgently at his open mouth, still trying and failing to gasp in air.

Happy’s brow furrows. “What? I’m not good at charades, kid.”

Looking past Happy, Peter can see May still fast asleep in the bed, snoring lightly. He internally curses at how heavy of a sleeper she is. Tapping Happy’s arm wildly, Peter continues to point at his mouth.

Happy sighs. “Your throat hurts? You lost your voice? You’re hungry?”

Peter’s head is swimming and black spots are dancing across his field of vision. His knees start to give way. 

“Whoa!” Eyes widening, Happy lurches forward to grab him under his arms as Peter lifts his hands up to desperately claws at his own throat.

Suddenly it seems to click. “Hang on, are you _ choking?” _ Happy demands. Peter nods frantically. “Shit, okay, I got you.” 

In one quick movement, Happy whirls him around and wraps his arms around Peter’s middle. He makes one hand into a fist and grabs it with the other before shoving it, hard, up and into Peter’s stomach.

Peter’s ears are ringing now and his lungs burn from lack of oxygen. Happy tries again, to no avail. But on the third thrust, a blue coated M&M shoots out of Peter’s mouth and goes flying, hitting the side of May’s favorite vase with a ‘ping.’

Instantly, Peter gasps in a lungful of air, then gags and doubles over to throw up onto his own bare feet. Happy grips him around the elbow to keep him from tumbling forward; Peter can hear the grimace in the man’s voice, “Alright, you’re alright, just get it up…”

When the gagging stops, Peter straightens back up shakily and turns around, catching a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. His eyes are red and wet with tears, which are running down and mixing with the snot and vomit on his face. It’s pretty horrific, but he only has one thought on his mind.

Drawing in another shuddering breath, Peter narrows his eyes at Happy. “Are… Are you sleeping with my aunt?”


	19. Bruce & Hulk + Papercut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Location: Gala  
Character: Bruce  
Injury: Papercut  
Caretaker: Hulk  
Bonus: "Take off your shoes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Cecily! You sent me this prompt like six months ago lol, and I finally sat down yesterday and wrote it. Unfortunately I didn't finish yesterday, so it's a little late for your birthday (Tony would probably say fashionably late). Anyway, I hope you had a great birthday!

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Bruce mutters to Tony as Tony straightens his bowtie.

“I told you, all the other Avengers are gonna be there,” Tony reminds him. “You’ll be more conspicuous if you’re not there than you’d be if you walked in as your alter ego. And besides, the people love you!”

Bruce scoffs. “They’d hate me if they got to know me.”

“That’s ridiculous. I know you and I don’t hate you.” Tony grabs some hair wax from his bathroom vanity and starts to meticulously sculpt Bruce’s curls. “Anyway, the Avengers aren’t really the focus tonight. It’s just the regular old SI annual fundraising gala. But it would look better if we were all there.” He puts the finishing touches on Bruce’s hair and they both turn to look at themselves in the mirror.

“And by ‘look better’, you mean raise more money,” Bruce deadpans.

“Well, yeah,” replies Tony as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “More money for the Stark Relief Foundation can’t be a bad thing, right?”

Bruce deflates. “Great, now I look like an asshole.”

“Nah, you don’t” says Tony. “And even if you did, that would make two of us.” He looks at Bruce’s tuxedo, which is rented, and frowns. “I just wish you’d told me sooner that you don’t have a tux of your own. I could have had one tailored for you.”

“Oh,” begins Bruce, in his classic I-don’t-want-to-be-a-bother voice. “I’m fine with a rental…”

“Ridiculous,” counters Tony. “I’m the one outfitting you Avengers to make you all look cool. Can’t have anyone finding out you have to _ rent _ your gala clothes. Still, you do look pretty good.” He looks Bruce up and down, but only then does he notice Bruce’s shoes.

“Whoa, no, you can’t go out with those.”

Bruce looks down at them and frowns. “Why not?”

“Uh, well, for starters, they’re _ brown _ . This is a _ black tie _ event.”

“Well, my tie _ is _ black,” Bruce counters jokingly, pointing to his bowtie.

“Nice try,” laughs Tony. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.” They leave Tony’s bathroom, and he heads to his closet to dig out a spare pair of shoes for his friend. There’s only one pair there. Shit. Pepper must have finally done that spring cleaning of Tony’s closet that she’d been threatening for months. All of his old shoes are gone, probably donated to charity, and the only pair left is the pair that’s so valuable, not even Tony has worn them to any events yet. He had them custom made by an elderly artisan from the downs of western Denmark on his last trip to the country with Peter to watch the world didgeridoo championships.

Well, if he tells Bruce any of this, Bruce’ll never wear them, and Tony will have to look at a tux with _ brown _ shoes all night. No. No way.

“Here you go,” he says, casually tossing the priceless wingtips to Bruce.

* * *

The gala is a rousing success…until the last fifteen minutes.

The four-course meal—featuring dishes from throughout the Szechuan region of China—is stunningly beautiful and absolutely delicious. Tony is happy to see Bruce enjoying the food and the company, chatting with not only the Avengers but with some other guests he just met tonight. He even dances for a while. A few fast songs with Nat, a slow dance with Thor’s date Jane, and a _ waltz _ with Rhodey.

Tony almost trips over his feet at the sight while waltzing with Pepper. He had no idea his friend could dance at all, much less waltz.

Toward the end of the evening, when Tony’s finished with his rounds of schmoozing and most of the guests have trickled out of the ballroom, he returns to the Avengers’ table were Bruce and Clint are sitting alone (Thor has disappeared somewhere with Jane, Rhodey and Nat are slow-dancing drunkenly despite the fast music, and Steve, technically the youngest of them all aside from Nat, has already gone home for the night).

“Wow, Bruce!” says Tony, plopping onto the empty seat beside his friend. “I saw you on the dance floor earlier. And you wanted to stay home alone at the tower tonight? You’re a natural at galas! You’re putting me to shame!”

Bruce shrugs a little shyly and picks up the handcrafted fortune cookie that was placed on his plate (and those of the other guests) at some point while he was on the dance floor.

“Must be the shoes you lent me,” he jokes. “They are pretty comf—_ ouch!” _

The paper fortune inside the cookie slides against Bruce’s forefinger as he pulls the cookie apart, giving him a very deep paper cut right across his fingerprint.

He drops the cookie and hisses in pain. “Shit.”

Tony slides his chair closer to Bruce. “Here, let me take a look.”

Bruce extends his hand for Tony to look. “Ouch. That looks pretty deep. And it must hurt like a sonofabitch. I think there’s a first aid kit in the…Oh no.”

The tip of Bruce’s finger has begun to turn green.

“Shit, Tony," says Bruce. "Fuck, I think…_ shit.” _

That last ‘shit’ comes out in a deeper tone than normal. Fuck. Bruce is about to Hulk out in the middle of this gala.

“Bruce, quick!” Tony shouts. “Take off your shoes!”

“His _ shoes?” _ shouts Clint, backing away from Bruce. “That’s all you can think of at a time like this?”

Tony backs up too, tapping his chest to quickly suit up in case he has to lure Big Green away from the other guests. Thank goodness most of them have already left.

He watches as if in slow-motion as his beautiful, perfect, one-of-a-kind, never-worn shoes burst into shreds from Hulk’s expanding feet. But he can’t afford to think about that right now. It’s time for damage control.

But Hulk isn’t paying attention to anything or anyone, save the small, crispy confection on the table in front of him. He lets out a furious roar at it, his breath scattering the two halves toward the middle of the large table. He lifts his great fists in the air and brings them down, demolishing the table and all of its contents with one blow.

“Hulk—smash—stupid—cookie!” He punctuates each word with a fresh blow, until there’s nothing but dust on the floor in front of him.

“Hey, hey, easy, Big Guy,” soothes Tony, approaching him cautiously. “You okay now? Got that out of your system?”

“Stupid cookie hurt puny Banner!” shouts Hulk. “Hurt Banner, hurt Hulk!”

“I get that,” says Tony, trying to tune out the sound of the few remaining guests (except the Avengers) fleeing the ballroom in terror. “Can I see the damage?”

With a pitiful moan, Hulk sits down and gingerly holds out his hand to Tony. Seeing as Hulk doesn’t look on the verge of a rampage over the papercut, Tony retracts his suit again and examines Hulk’s finger.

“Hey, there’s no cut here. It’s gone!” he observes. “Of course. Your healing factor must have fixed it up as soon as you Hulked out.”

Hulk looks back at his finger with a frown. He pinches thumb and finger together a few times.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Great!” says Tony. “Banner’s gonna be very grateful. On a normal person, a papercut that deep would’ve plagued them for days. Good job, buddy!”

Hulk smiles, pleased with himself at the praise.

With the immediate danger subsided, the Avengers decide to hang out in the ballroom with Hulk while they wait for Bruce to come back.

Tony picks up the obliterated remains of his once-glorious hand-made shoes and cradles them in his hands a moment before walking to a trash bin behind the bar in the corner of the room.

Clint follows him and asks, “What’s so great about those shoes anyway, that they were the first thing you thought of when Bruce started Hulking out?”

Tony explains it, and then, to his complete indignation, Clint starts to howl with laughter. He has to lean on the bar to keep from falling over in his mirth. Tony is not amused.

“Hey, that artisan _ died _ a few months back. He was ninety-three. The last of his trade. I can’t just buy replacement shoes at Payless!”

Through his tears of laughter, Clint manages to ask, “Yeah, but then, why the hell didn’t _ you _wear the Danish shoes and give those ones to Bruce?” He gestures at Tony’s feet.

Tony stares at him. Well fuck, he’s right.

Unable to think of a satisfactory answer, he just resorts to, “Shut up, Barton.”

He walks away from Clint’s renewed laughter in a huff. Struck with morbid curiosity, he kicks through the remains of the shattered dinner table until he finds the tiny slip of paper that was the cause of all the ruckus. He picks it up, wondering vaguely if its wisdom will be at all comforting in this situation.

‘You are the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life,’ it reads.

Tony tosses it to the floor. “Well, I don’t know what I was expecting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I admit, this is slightly longer than "drabble" length. What can I say, I sat down to write a blurb and this fic dropped out of my brain. Whoops.
> 
> P.S. I know fortune cookies aren’t exactly authentic in Chinese cuisine, but it wasn’t easy to think of a plausible way for Bruce to get a paper cut at a gala :P


End file.
